


Reflection

by benzedrxne



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 07:24:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzedrxne/pseuds/benzedrxne
Summary: Mirrors reflect everything you've ever been and ever will be. You are the hardest face to confront.





	Reflection

     It was a cool evening, the sky was painted red and pink, colours that were slowly being consumed by the purples and blues of twilight. Another night alone, Dean thought grimly. He lit another cigarette, holding it in his unsteady hand and breathing it in. He blew out the smoke slowly and leaned against the wooden banister of the patio on which he stood. The world was quiet, a bright contrast to the chaos of voices that was ever growing inside his head. It was the medication, he admitted. He hadn't taken it in a while; he was advised to take at least one capsule a day, but, once he was out, and his mood wasn't especially cheery, he wasn't in a rush to go buy more. So, here he was, sleeping in an old cabin in the middle of batshit nowhere without cell service and without another soul to confide in. Dean sighed and dropped the smoke to the ground, crushing it with his boot. "S'posed to ease my fucking nerves," he muttered. He grabbed the packet of smokes from his pocket and stared at it for a moment, before launching it into the grass beyond the home. Dean paced, running a hand over his short fuzzy hair. He should've just gotten the damn pills, then maybe they'd- " _Shut the fuck up for_ once!" Dean growled, digging his nails into his skin. He looked over his shoulder into the house, shook his head, and walked inside. It was dark, everything was covered in dust, and it 100% did not make him feel any better. The only thing he gave the house was that it was much too dark for him to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror, avoiding himself and _his_ words. He adjusted the ashen jean jacket on his shoulders. He felt constricted.  _Confined._ Whatever word he could find in the maze of voices echoing off the walls of his skull. Even making his way to the large, open basement, he felt claustrophobic in his own skin. Dean's eyes flicked over the lone doorway nearby. A bathroom, no doubt, and Ambrose knew he'd be forced to face his reflection if he found his way there. He backed up against the wall and shut his eyes, taking in the ambiance and letting the chill of the room crawl up his spine. His cold body longed for the heat of the action in the ring; the ring, where he felt freer than he ever did in the real world. He felt free when he pinned his opponent to the mat, he felt free when he leaped from the ropes and took down anyone in his way- with his brother. His brother, Seth! Seth didn't even know where he was right now, he was probably worried, the poor guy. Roman didn't know either, and Dean imagined he was reassuring Seth that he was okay. The thought made his mind settle, only for a moment, like he was in control. But then he _felt it_ , the slap of a cold, steel chair on his back, striking him over, and over, and over, and never stopping. " _FUCK-_ " He dropped to the ground, burying his head in his hands. He let out a small whimper as his head caved and released the headache that had been waiting to emerge. He tried to remember his brothers, remember how they stood by his side, but all he heard was the concussion that racked his brain; the concussions that had plagued him before. Before, when glass was broken against his back, when barbed wire was stuck into his sides when he would bleed himself dry just to _feel something_. In his hands, he could _feel_ every time he tore flesh with his nails, or dug a fork into the heads of those who crossed his path. He could _feel_ every claw and scratch and bite he inflicted and how it made him _feel_. "No," his voice echoed into the dark. "That wasn't you." Dean stumbled into the bathroom, feeling around the wall and finding the light switch. It flickered, and then held a somber glow. He stood above the sink, looking down into the drain. He drummed his fingers against the white plaster, biting his lip and attempting to slow his beating heart. He closed his eyes once more, and raised his head to the near-shattered mirror. When Dean opened his eyes, his breath hitched. 

     It wasn't Dean Ambrose who stared back in the reflection. 

     It was a young man whose eyes were bright and hair was wild. He was beaten and bruised, but the ghost of a smile still appeared on his lips. 

     Dean put his hand up to the glass, tracing his finger along the cracks. As he did, it nicked him to the point where blood ran down his hand. He looked down at the crimson, then back to the man in the mirror. Was this who he used to be? 

     "Jon Moxley," he said faintly, dropping his hand to his side. "That's where you've been," Dean chuckled, then that chuckled became a laugh, and that laughter filled the house. He leaned into the mirror. "That's where you've been this whole time!" He tapped the glass. "In my reflection."

     He looked at the staircase outside the door, and waved himself goodbye. "I've got to go. See ya, Mox." And with that, he was gone.

     But his reflection still followed him out of the house and into the night.  


End file.
